


Play for Me

by sirenscall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, M/M, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 17:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10858560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenscall/pseuds/sirenscall
Summary: Sherlock plays Bach and it brings Jim back to him.





	Play for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Because my Sheriarty heart just kind of loved that Sherlock's first instinct was to play Bach.

The stars weren't visible tonight, too many clouds in the sky. Not that he was much for stargazing, unlike his consulting counterpart, but it might have served an acceptable distraction when the warm glow of streetlamps illuminated nothing except an empty street.

It wasn't only Jim to suffer sleepless nights, Sherlock endured his fair share as well. Cases or experiments at least offered his brain something to do while his body laid dormant. It was the nights during which nothing had transpired that left him scrambling to fill the void. And the war between maintaining and quitting his smoking habit still raged on.

So, Sherlock indulged in his other favorite hobby. He would try to be mindful, when in the past he'd had not a care for the time of night, but tonight he was desperate. Something had to take him out of this endless limbo. He picked up his violin and began a familiar tune, the same one that always stuck at the forefront of his mind.

"Poor Johann Sebastian. Can't you finish just one of his pieces?" came a familiar voice behind him.

The ghost of hands at his hips, followed by an airy kiss on the back of his neck, had pulled Sherlock away from his playing. "What are you doing up?" he asked as he set down his instrument. "You need your rest, Jim."

"Always time for that," Moriarty scoffed. "You always play Bach when you think of me, you want me here." He dropped another kiss to Sherlock's neck. "What's the matter, honey? Are you feeling lonely?"

"...Bored."

"Ah, well, we'll have to do something about that. Won't we?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as fingers slipped underneath his waistband. "Jim -"

"Shh, shh. Just enjoy it, you're so tense."

Sherlock tried to time his breathing with the hand moving against him. "You need this," came as a purr into his ear when, suddenly, Sherlock ceased all motion. "I need a case," he growled and removed the hand from his pants.

Another snort sounded behind him. "Ugh, I'm sure you have no shortage of those. _'Please help me, Mr. Holmes.'_ " Moriarty imitated in a high-pitched voice of a client.

With eyes clenched shut, Sherlock tried to push down the sick feeling stirring from his stomach. "They just aren't what they used to be," he huffed.

"Aha," a moment sung in triumph. "So that's what's missing? That personal... touch?"

Fingers danced along his skin once more. "Something like that," Sherlock answered, resigned.

"Mmm and once you've had the best, nothing else will ever be enough."

There were no words to counter that. Moriarty was right, so dreadfully right. Sherlock pulled away and picked his violin back up, but he didn't resume playing. What was the point now? A wave of defeat washed over him.

"Aww, c'mon, Sherlock. Finish playing. For me."

Strangely, Jim's words weren't laced with sarcasm, rather encouragement. "Why?" Sherlock asked quietly. "Will you even be here to listen to it?"

For a moment, he wasn't sure if Jim was going to answer. And he didn't, but Sherlock's own words parroted back in his ears. 'I am you.'

With a deep breath, Sherlock brought the violin close and slid the bow across its strings...

 

_He was back at St. Bart's. Everything as it was yet everything was new._

_There stood Moriarty, slightly unhinged and already dead in spirit. The hand that reached up had come so close, Sherlock recalled, to meeting his shoulder before it waited instead to be shaken. Sherlock hadn't thought anything of it then, focused more on Moriarty's next move. But he saw it now, the stifling emptiness, the desperation in Jim's eyes._

_He wanted more. Sherlock understood because they were the same. He could take Moriarty's hand once again, and together carry out their parts, or he could pull Jim close. He would find the gun, toss it aside and with it, the question of why the criminal had brought one when the detective was always meant to jump._

_Moriarty's hand had been ice to the touch yet the rest of him was radiating warmth, like he still had a little life in him somewhere. Sherlock held him tighter, whether to calm Jim's nerves or his own, he didn't know. What mattered was that they were one. He could feel his companion's breath hitch in his ear, "We can be together, Sherlock. Like this."_

'Holmes killing Holmes,' echoed in the distance.

_The air went still, Sherlock's rapid blinking the only movement. "That's what it was for, by dying too..." his stomach dropped and slowly he edged back, "You wanted me to choose you."_

_Moriarty sighed, his shoulders slumped. "That's just what your mind is telling you."_

_Turbulent eyes fixed upon him but Sherlock wouldn't waver. He stared back hard. "That doesn't make it untrue."_

_Jim shrugged, unfazed. "Maybe," his voice was hollow, "maybe not. You can never be certain, not about me." He frowned bitterly. "It's too late for that."_

_'No it isn't!' Sherlock wanted to shout but the words stuck in his throat. He needed to get out of here, suffocated in the wide open space of the rooftop, when the feel of a small hand tugged him forward. "Why don't you tell me_ your _truth," Jim needled. "It won't hurt you now."_

_He'd stood on this ledge before but this was one fall the detective had never been certain he could survive. But Moriarty looked at him in earnest. "Say it," he whispered shakily. "Say it," Jim urged with more insistence._

_"What does it matter?" Sherlock asked, back stiff. "It won't make any difference."_

_"Because," came the answer through gritted teeth, "it's such a waste not to. Just once, say it," he pleaded again. "Say it," he repeated until Sherlock sank to the ground with the words ringing in his ears. As Sherlock looked on, he saw nothing in front of him, and nothing behind, save for James Moriarty._

_"Yes, alright! I miss you!"_

 

When he finished playing, he clutched the instrument to his side. Although he couldn't say if he had actually reached the end of the piece when he could have just as well lost himself to his thoughts. Either were known to happen.

Jim always grew quiet at this time and tonight proved no different. If nothing else, Sherlock liked to think that the music was soothing. Whether he was any closer to understanding Bach, he hoped. But Jim never said anything about it so, if the notes were right, Sherlock still had a leg to stand on; if at least his abilities weren't called into question...

Still, even one quip from Moriarty would have been welcome. Sherlock had never said the words aloud and he likely never would. How could he admit he ever missed the man who had threatened everyone remotely close to him? That truth was his, no one else had the right to it.

Not that that would fool Jim, so how could he pass up such an opportunity to gloat?

But Sherlock knew why. Of course he knew, he needed only to turn around.

Like the night sky devoid of stars, so were his rooms devoid of Jim. He had coped, what happened had happened. But then the idea was planted, one tiny seed of an idea that their game wasn't over, that somehow they could meet again. So he had waited. _Still waited._

There was little outside of Moriarty's reach, even in his physical absence. But it didn't matter what else he had been involved with, who else's games he'd had a hand in. Sherlock only cared about the one belonging to James Moriarty. Yet, each and every time, someone else would claim it.

Sherlock had thought he'd moved ahead of Moriarty. Instead, Jim had left him behind. "You were supposed to come back," he whispered to the empty room.

 

_"You weren't."_


End file.
